Visitor
by Ceu Praca
Summary: Reese gets drunk, and apparently Fusco's house is the only safe place close by, so Fusco's house is where he goes. Naturally, Lionel is a little annoyed by the intrusion, but also more than a little surprised. Set shortly after S3-E14 "Provenance." Rated T for mentions of bribery, extortion, drunkenness, and mild conspiracy. This is a two-chapter story.
1. Drunk & Apologetic

**A/N:** Another Lionel Fusco story. Really, by now you shouldn't be surprised anymore. This takes place shortly after Season 3 Episode 14, "Provenance." And, until the show actually makes it clear that Reese is no longer getting himself drunk out of depression...I'm going to have fun. XD So, yes, read on. This is a two part story.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Lionel or John, dang it! How many times do I have to tell you? Anything_ Person of Interest_ belongs to CBS and Jonathan Nolan. :P

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**Part 1: Drunk & Apologetic**

My place is dark when I get home that night, a soundless testament to the fact that Lee has been staying with the ex an awful lot recently due to the sometimes aggravating fact that I've been doing a lot of work for The Invisible Friend lately. A few nights ago, it was stealing information, pretending to arrest Reese, and a few other small jobs that were kind of insignificant compared to the stuff I normally do with those two.

Still, I can't complain; it was better than bullets flying or being beaten to a pulp. And, I have to admit, I felt satisfied when I shoved John into the back of my cruiser; it's fun when I get to arrest him every now and then. And…well, it's nice to have him back. Even though it's pretty obvious that he's still hurting a lot, I was glad to see him back in New York, fighting crime again.

Speaking of which…I know that's not _my_ coat hanging next to the door; I don't have a jacket that expensive. I move down the hall silently and, one by one, check each of the rooms, until I enter the living area and see Wonder Boy laid out on the couch, his eyes closed, looking surprisingly peaceful in spite of having been all over the world and back in the past week.

I sigh, going back and depositing my coat and shoes by the door, then returning to stare down at him cautiously. John's never come to my house before, and I didn't recall ever giving him my address, although, considering everything else he knows, it's not that far-fetched of an idea that he would know where I live. He probably just pried the information out of Ballistic.

Carefully, I reach out and tap him on the shoulder; a fist flies up, and I jump back before it can connect with my gut. Reese sits up slowly and shakes his head in exasperation, looking amused. "You shouldn't wake a sleeping killer, Lionel."

"Yeah, well what're you doin' in my house?" I challenge, glaring at him. He looks really weird without a coat, his shirt all rumpled, his hair for once not neatly combed.

"I wanted to thank you," he answers simply, causing me to freeze. "Your timing on this last mission was…impeccable. You were where you needed to be when you needed to be there. And for that…thank you."

I frown and sit down warily on the other end of the couch from him, confused. Since when does he ever actually _thank_ me for my efforts? I sigh again and nod. "Well, uh, you're welcome. With all the crap I do for you and your team, you should start payin' me."

"You mean me and _our_ team," he corrects mildly. "You've been part of everything since year one, and don't think I've forgotten that."

"You're freakin' me out, Wonder Boy. Since when do you treat me nicely?"

He gives me an offended look. "When have I ever been mean to you?"

I snort. "Threats, extortion, bribes…"

"Bribes are a _nice_ form of extortion," he cuts in, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Bribes to make me do something illegal," I shoot back, chuckling in spite of myself.

"Lionel, nearly everything our team does is illegal," he answers, rolling his eyes. "If you're going to be that much of a baby about it, then fine, we can pay you. With all of the other charity he does, I'm sure Finch won't mind."

"'Charity?'" I growl, starting to get exasperated. "I've saved your illicit butt more times than I can count now! Don't you start thinking that I don't pull my weight!"

"I didn't mean to offend you," he replies, smirking. "I'll tell Harold to put you on the payroll. Again, as you so elegantly phrased it, you've saved my butt a lot, and last mission was no exception. So…thanks."

I sigh for the third time. "You're just here to thank me? You don't have any other missions that you need me to do? We don't need to steal the Mona Lisa tomorrow?"

Unexpectedly, he grins. "No, no other missions. And no more art theft."

"I don't think you can promise that," I retort. "We might need to steal from a painter to blackmail him into giving us back the old lady he kidnapped."

"Unless you actually _know_ such a painter…" he says with a laugh.

"What's gotten into you?" I interrupt. "You're not usually this…cheerful." Just then, I catch a whiff of his breath, and I grimace, suddenly realizing the answer to my own question. "You've been drinking again, haven't you?"

"Yes," he chuckles. "Not enough to inhibit me too severely."

I glower at him. "I really hope you didn't drive here."

"I typically walk," he answers evasively, then, before I can say anything, he continues. "I also came here for a different reason. I wanted to apologize."

"Wait, _what_?"

He glances down at his feet, and, for the first time, I bear witness to John Reese the Superhero looking _nervous_. "Back in…well, in the Colorado jail, I…I called you garbage. I didn't mean it, and I'm sorry for saying it."

I blink, astonished. "You're _apologizing_ to me?"

"Yeah," he replies, shrugging awkwardly. "Don't hold it against me, please. I have a tendency to make stupid decisions when I'm…distressed. That's another reason I wanted to thank you, Lionel. You forced me to start thinking clearly."

I smile, standing up and holding out a hand. _Nice to know that at least some of what I say gets through his thick skull. He's definitely more chatty when he's drunk._ "Apology accepted, John."

He looks surprised. "You called me 'John.'"

"What of it?"

"You normally use one of your numerous silly nicknames."

"Yeah, well, don't get too used to it," I grunt, shaking my head in exasperation. "You're still a pain in the neck. Now come on, I'll drive you home. There's no way I'm letting you drive drunk."

"I'm fine, Lionel. You've let me break the law before," he reminds me, looking mildly annoyed.

"Yeah, but I'm still a cop, and you're still my friend, and I really don't wanna have to explain myself to Finch when you get T-boned for driving through a red light."

I grab his arm and haul him to his feet, ignoring his warning glare and pulling him down the hall to the door. He sighs, but, surprisingly, doesn't fight me. "And to think, you used to be terrified of me," he muses, pulling on his coat methodically.

I roll my eyes, confiscating his car keys from his coat pocket and dragging him outside, where I find a dark blue sedan. "I'm betting that this car isn't yours," I growl when I notice the bumper sticker that says 'Save the Rattlesnakes' on it.

"Nah, but it works, so I use it."

"Well after I dump you off, you better tell me where you got it so I can return it in one piece," I mutter, opening the passenger door and shoving him in.

"Fusco, I don't need your help sitting down," he mumbles, although I can tell that whatever alcohol he had is already making him sleepy.

"Just tell me where your apartment is," I snap. "And don't forget to buckle."

"Yes, Lionel," he laughs, buckling the seatbelt, then recites an address, slurring slightly when he says the numbers.

I shake my head. "Finch had better pay me for everything I put up with around you…"

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**A/N:** Drunk John is fun to write about. XD And I love how easy it is for Lionel to get annoyed. Therefore, writing stories about these two is _so much_ fun! =D Again, this is a two part story, so read on for the next chapter. By the way, I was impressed by how Fusco seemed to be in the right place at the right time all throughout episode 14; his timing, as Reese said, was perfect. :o)


	2. Fruit Drinks

**A/N: **I got enough requests, so...yeah, here's part 2. :o) Someone also commented that they wanted me to write something between Lionel and John about the whole Joss Carter thing, so there's something on that in this chapter, too.

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**Part 2: ****Fruit Drinks**

"I work my butt off to put criminals away _legally_, and I live in a dumpy apartment. On the other hand, _you_ run around blowing people's knees off, and you get a _loft_," I grumble. "Where's the justice in that?"

Reese merely chuckles, shaking my hand off his arm and stumbling toward a couch, where he flops down onto his back and grimaces in pain; evidently, it's been long enough since he imbibed that the alcohol is wearing off and the headache is starting. That's another reason I quit drinking; the splitting hangover you get afterward.

"Lionel, cupboard to the right above the stove, ibuprofen," he snaps, suddenly sounding less carefree than he had before.

I roll my eyes, but comply and rummage around the kitchen until I discover where he keeps his cups; I grab a glass and fill it with water, bringing both it and the ibuprofen to him. "You got any bananas around here?"

"Bananas?" he echoes, sounding puzzled. "Why would I keep bananas in my loft?"

I sigh. "What, don't you eat? What about eggs, then? You got any eggs or fruit?"

He blinks rapidly, looking confused, then waves his arm in the general direction of a closet. "There are fruit drinks in there, I think. I was leaving the country, so the refrigerator is empty. I haven't restocked anything yet."

"I need to have a word with your superior about your lack of care for yourself," I mutter, opening the closet and pausing momentarily at the grenades stacked up side-by-side with a six-pack of bottles labeled 'SoBe.' I grab the bottles and hand him one.

He scowls slightly, but sits up and opens it, beginning to drink; I notice that he's already downed the pills. He pauses for a moment to stare at me. "There a reason you're still here, Lionel?"

"_Someone's_ gotta keep you from getting yourself killed," I growl. "Honestly, John, you gotta stop doin' this to yourself. Havin' a drink once in a while isn't a bad thing, but you can't keep gettin' yourself stone drunk like this. It's bad for you, and it's bad for those of us who have to work with you. How am I supposed to depend on you to watch my back if you can't even walk straight?"

He looks impassive, continuing to sip from the bottle of the whatever-it-was fruit drink. I wait patiently, knowing that he was going to either kick me out or acknowledge me, though I wasn't sure whether his reaction would be positive or negative.

He eventually gives a wry smile. "Bananas?"

"High in potassium, which is something the body loses when you drink too much. Water and fruit help a lot, too. Did you even comprehend what I said?"

"Yes, I comprehended it," he mutters. "Unfortunately, you have a point."

"It's about time you realize that." I hesitate a second, then I shake my head, sighing. "I miss Carter too, John. We all loved her; a day doesn't go by without me realizing again that I'll never be able to work with her anymore."

I see him flinch visibly, then he covers his eyes with one hand. "I've realized by now that no matter what I do, people I care about are going to get killed just by being near me," he says slowly, laying back down. "It's…it's Taylor that haunts me. When I told him what happened to his mom, he blamed me. He was angry at me, and…he was right. It _was_ my fault that she died. She would still be here if she hadn't been working with me."

I whack him upside the head before I can stop myself; he strikes at me reflexively, but I jump back in time, and he makes no further attempt to harm me, merely muttering something that sounds like an Italian curse.

I glare at him. "You listen here, Wonder Boy! _Patrick Simmons_ killed her, not you! Were you the one holding the gun that shot her? No, that was Simmons! Taylor only blames you because he doesn't have anyone else to blame; his mother's killer is already dead! He's angry and hurting, and he's just trying to make sense of everything. Y'know, John, that kid is a lot like you in some ways. He's just lashing out because he doesn't know what else to do. He's never had to deal with a serious loss like that before. And if you had told Joss to stop working with you, do you _really_ think she would have listened?"

"No," he whispers, closing his eyes tightly, and I notice that his hands are shaking. "She never listened when I tried to warn her."

I sit next to him, frowning. John may be a dangerous assassin, but the more I get to know him, the more I realize how…_human_ he is. He has that same fragility that all men have after they lose someone dear to them. I nudge his shoulder gently, and he glances at me out of the corner of his eye, looking confused. I shrug, smiling slightly and handing him another bottle of the SoBe stuff. "I'm sorry, John."

He chokes on the drink, coughing, and spits back into the bottle before scowling at me in surprise. "_What_? What do _you_ have to apologize for?"

"When I first met you, you were intimidating and powerful, and you've kept up that appearance throughout the past few years. It's not often that you let people know that you need help. But you _do_ need help, John. You're not invincible. And I'm sorry for not realizing that sooner."

"I'm fine, Lionel," he grumbles, taking another swallow of the fruit drink and thankfully not choking this time.

"No, you're _not_ fine, and you can't fool me anymore."

"I'm not going to a therapist if that's what you want. I've met too many shrinks who turned out to be crooks."

I laugh in spite of myself at that. "No, nothing like that. I just want you to know that…well, I'm here if you need someone to talk to. You know my address and phone number already. If you need help or just need to talk, then I'm free. And if you get yourself drunk again, then _please_ call me; there's no way I'm letting you drink and drive."

He gives me a wry look. "I appreciate the gesture, Lionel, but really, I'm okay."

"How many times do you want me to contradict you? Stop pretending that you're back to normal, because we both know that you're not."

"I haven't been normal in decades," he murmurs. "Fine, Lionel. I accept your offer. If I need to talk, then I'll talk to you. Anything I say, though, whether I'm in a drunken stupor or not, stays strictly confidential."

"I promise, John, I won't repeat anything to anyone, not even your boss."

"Not that I can keep secrets from The Machine," he growls.

"From the _what_? What Machine?" I say, confused; he'd said the word 'machine' like it was a title.

His eyes widen, and he turns away from me slightly. "Nothing!" he snaps harshly. "For your own safety, forget what I said!"

_Is it just my imagination, or did he actually sound_ scared_? But scared of what?_ "I don't even know what you meant, so why would I repeat it? What the heck is 'The Machine?'"

He shakes his head violently, no doubt worsening his headache. "No, you have to forget about it. Forget that you ever heard the word that I said. If you try to learn more, it'll get you killed. Joss guessed the answer, and she was murdered; it _allowed_ her to die. I won't let you die, too."

_Whatever the heck 'it' is supposed to mean. Is there actually someone even higher up than Finch that he answers to? Someone who calls themselves a machine? What does he mean 'it allowed her to die?' Someone knew ahead of time that Simmons was going to kill Carter?_

He looks alarmed by something, so I decide to just drop it. "It's okay, I'll stop asking."_ But I won't forget. Whatever he's talking about has him spooked, and if John's frightened by something, we should all be scared._

He seems visibly relieved. "Thank you, Lionel. I promise, if I need help, I'll call, but forget that comment I made, please."

I nod. "You'll be all right for the rest of the night?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. It's not like this is my first time recovering from having too many drinks."

"That's what worries me," I reply, rolling my eyes. "Look, I'm goin' home for the night. Don't you _dare_ leave your place until every last drop of alcohol is out of your system. I'm not going to tell him what we talked about, but I _will_ tell Finch that you were drinking again. Your boss needs to know in case he has another job for you tomorrow and you're not up to it yet."

He glares at me. "I'll be perfectly fine in the morning, Fusco."

"Yeah, but fine enough to take down bad guys? If there's another case tomorrow, then Shaw and I can handle it. You need to take a day off."

"I've had _too many_ days off lately," he grumbles.

"Then you can handle one more," I retort. "By the way, how do you guys figure out who needs saving and who doesn't?"

"We never know if the person needs saving, or if they're the one who needs to lose a kneecap, as demonstrated by our recent case with Kelli Lin," he answers, chuckling softly. "We just get a number."

"Number?" I repeat incredulously. "What, do you classify people as robots or something?"

"No, we've hacked the US government's database and stolen the SSN's of every United States citizen," he says, deadpan.

"Sure, like I'm gonna believe that technical nonsense."

"Believe it or don't, Lionel. Finch has hacked the biggest government agencies that are out there before. But stop asking."

I smirk at that, remembering the time when Glasses had been drugged with Ecstasy and had asked, with the biggest, dumbest grin on his face, if I wanted him to hack the Pentagon. "Fine, I won't ask. Goodnight, John, and try not to get yourself drunk again anytime in the next two months, at least."

He grunts noncommittally, standing and staggering off in the general direction of what I guess is a bedroom; I shake my head and chuckle, exiting the loft quietly and locking the door behind me. I know I'm not going to get much sleep tonight; I still have to return the stolen sedan to its owners. Hopefully it doesn't belong to someone in a mob or something.

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**A/N1:** Conspiracy theory warning: I, personally, think that The Machine deliberately waited until it was too late to save Carter because she had guessed about The Machine's existence. It's been proven already that The Machine immediately labels people who know about it as "yellow." And by that point, The Machine was already sort of AWOL, so who knows what was going through its processors at the time. Yes, I really, really want Lionel Fusco to learn about The Machine, although I won't write anything more about that because I want it to be official and canonical that he knows about the darned thing. In my theory, then yes, John Reese knows full well that The Machine deliberately delayed in warning them, and that's why he both hates it and is slightly scared by it.

**A/N2:** SoBe is an awesome, all-natural, really delicious fruit drink that I love. For some reason, John strikes me as a SoBe drinking type of person. Yes, eggs, bananas, and fruit are really good for people to help them get over a hangover. I've never actually been drunk personally, but I've done a ton of research on it.


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